


I Never Agreed to Be Your Holy One

by Aria_i_Adagio



Series: Whatever I've Done - First Draft [7]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Book xiii: death, Death, Female Apprentice, Flashbacks, Multi, OT3, PTSD, Plague, Polyamory, Resurrection, poly route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-24 15:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15633828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/Aria_i_Adagio
Summary: Death.This will be just as heavy as you think it will be.Expands on Book XIII.





	1. My Soul Connects to the Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: PTSD flashback, self-harm, death

Julian's body, wrapped in a coarse canvas shroud, lays on the guest room bed.  Asra freezes in the doorway; his hand raised to his heart. I approach slowly, one hand extended in front of me.  His body is still. If Julian's mark is going to work it's magic, it hasn't done so yet. I draw back the shroud from his face, wincing at the bruise around his neck.  Someone had the decency to close his eyes at least. I climb into the bed and cradle his head in my lap, stroking his curly hair, while I wait. It took him what maybe twenty minutes to recover from the vampire eel bite he took from me, and thirty or so for Inanna's injuries.  How long to recover from dying?

At the doorway, Portia pushed aside a still frozen Asra and crosses the room with a sob.  She hugs me, and understood the shroud a bit further, pulling free one of her brother's hands to hold before sitting down in the floor to wait.  She begins murmuring something, repetitive and soothing in her own language.

Asra is finally able to bring himself to enter the room.  He stays on the opposite side though, alternately pacing and picking up random objects from the side tables and shelves.

I smooth Julian's rumpled shirt.  There's something in the breast pocket.  I slide a finger in and fish out the object.  The glass charm I had enchanted for him. The magic had worn off and the light faded long ago, but he had kept it.  Choking back a sob, I return the trinket to his pocket.

An hour passes.  The light in the room shifts, a ray of sun hitting Julian's throat.  For a moment, I fear it's only the sunlight, but the skin on his throat begins to glow.

“Portia!  Asra!”

Julian convulses and coughs, before shakily breathing in.  He blinks several times before his eyes finally focus on me, the left corner of his mouth quirking up in a tired grin.  “Hey, you.”

Portia screams with joy, and Asra nigh literally flies across the room.  I've heard of, but never seen, people laughing and crying at the same time, but Asra is managing to do so, dimples in his cheeks showing and tears in his eyes as he embraces Julian.  “You're alive!”

Julian pats him awkwardly on the back.  “See, I told you it would work, but someone wouldn't trust me.”

I run the back of my hand adding Julian's jaw and trace the line where the bruise from the rope had marred his skin.  “Welcome back, beloved.”

Leaning forward to whisper in his ear, I push gently on Asra's shoulder.  “Give Portia a moment.” he sits back. Julian pushes himself up on one elbow and throws his other arm around his sister.  “Hey, Pasha. I'm back.”

“You, you -” She throws both her arms around his neck. “I swear if you ever do anything like that again I will kill you myself and have the bishop excommunicate your dead body and, and -”

“Shh . . . It's okay, besides I'm pretty sure I excommunicated myself a while ago.  A few times over even.” He coughs again. “Say is there anything to drink, maybe? Dying will give you a thirst.”

 

Asra scrambles to grab a bottle from a side table, passing it Julian who pulls out the stopper and downs it without a thought.  “Damn, that burns.”

Portia stands and retrieves a carafe from the other side of the room.  “Perhaps some water instead of wine?”

“Sure, uh.”  Julian tries to swing his legs off the bed and gets tangled in the shroud.  I grab his arm before he topples into the floor, getting a dopey grin in return.  “You know, on ships, they sew the dead up in their hammocks. Just taking a nap.”

“Uhuh.”  Portia forces a glass into her brother’s hand.  “Drink.”

He throws back the water, hands the glass back to Portia, and runs his hand through his hair.  “That’s better.” Disentangling his long legs from the shroud, he looks around at the three of us.  “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to ask what I found out?”  Julian curls himself forward then arches his back in a stretch, below slouching back on his elbows with cocky smile on his face. 

“He didn’t refuse you this time?”

“Apparently dying has some currency.”

“Ilya, what did you learn?”

“I was headed to Lucio’s room that night to kill him.  That was the cure. Lucio is the plague. Or rather the plague, the crimson beetles, the red water - they’re all tied to Lucio’s existence.  Knew I should have killed him sooner.” Julian takes the wine bottle back from Asra and drinks again.

Asra looks over at me.  “So, since he’s found some way to come back . . .”

“. . . the plague is also coming back.”  I grab the bottle from Julian and drink myself.

“Here’s the good news.  End Lucio for good, and end the plague for good.  Or, at least, it should work that way.”

“How are you going to that?  He’s already dead.” Portia looks the three of us over, subjecting Asra to the closest scrutiny.  

Asra hesitantly sits down next to Julian.  “We, Dema and I, think he’s planning to try to complete the ritual and fully restore himself during the Masquerade.  He didn’t have enough participants last time.”

“The idea is to warn away any potential participants - people who have a particular affinity for one of the major arcana.”

Portia looks skeptical.  “Will that stop him permanently? Or just for now?”

Asra looks at his upturned hands.  “I don’t know yet.”

Portia’s hands tighten around the carafe. “That’s not good enough!”

“I know.  But it’s the best I can do right now!”

Julian takes one of Asra’s hands in his, uncurling from the fist Asra has made.

“I’m sorry.”  Portia taps her foot and looks off to the side.  “It’s just today, and Ilya, and, and . . . Just figure it out before more people have to die, okay?”

“Pasha -”

She sets the carafe back down.  “I’ll go and tell Milady how things turned out.  You, you should drink some more water, Ilyusha.” Scrubbing the back of her hand across her face, she turns on her heel and leaves.

Julian flops back on the bed with a sigh.  “Sorry, Asra, she -”

“She’s right,” Asra says softly.  “It’s not good enough.”

“Hey, come here.” Julian throws out his arm around Asra and pulls him to his chest.  “You’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe.”  Asra curls into Julian’s embrace.  He looks unconvinced. 

I stroke his soft hair and his smooth cheek.  “It can’t be much harder than coming back from the dead, can I?”  

Asra makes a choked sound that halfway between a laugh and sob and turns his head, burying his face in Julian’s shirt.  I look at Julian in confusion. He’s biting his lip, not laughing for once. He puts his free hand on my shoulder and tugs me down, tucking my head under his chin.  “Just - Dema - just lay here with us for a bit.”

I settle against Julian’s chest, wrapping one leg over his and curling my hand around Asra’s still shaking fingers.  Julian’s hand is brushing over my hair in time with the rise and fall of his breath. I close my eyes, wondering how long it has been since Asra and I slept, and how a warp in time figures into that calculation.  When did Ilya last sleep? Does being dead count as sleep? 

“ _ Thief . . . _ ”

The voice hisses in my head, sibilant and clawing.  I bolt upright, pressing my hands to my temples.

“Dema!”

“What is it?”

A cold chill passes over me, and I can’t stop my teeth from chattering.  

“ _ You stole what was mine.” _

“A voice.”  I drop one hand from my face, eyes still closed, groping blindly for a human touch.  A hand finds my, large, soft skinned - Julian’s, wearing those gloves all the time. A second pair of hands, rougher, calloused from carving, take my other hand away from my face and gently cradle my jaw.  “Calling me a thief.”

“Lucio?”  Asra’s voice is concerned.  His fingertips brush across my cheekbones.  I nod. “Dema, look at me.”

I open my eyes.  The mid afternoon light in the room is muted but still painful.  Asra’s brows are furrowed with worry.

“He shouldn’t be able to . . . the wards I put on you before must not be working anymore.”

I close my eyes again, shivering.  Julian lets go of my hand, then pulls me against his chest.  He pulls me away from Asra as he does and the voice returns.  _ “Soon though . . . I’ll take it back.” _

Julian's hand touches my forehead. “You're burning up.”

“I'm freezing.”  Everything around me feels fuzzy and confused.

_ “Do you remember this, little thief?” _

“Asra,” Julian's voice is quiet with concern. 

“It’s okay.  It must have been when you sat in his chair in the dining room that the wards broke.  We can put them back. Make them stronger this time. It'll be okay.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than me.  He takes my hands again. The voice fades and with it some of the chill. I open my eyes and try to smile. I must not be very successful, because the look of concern doesn't leave his face.  “Dema, I need you to try to visualize an anchor point, somewhere that connects you to this world.”

The shop - my home for all of the time I can remember - is the first things that comes to mind.  Nine years. Even if I hadn't lost my memories, nine years would have been half of the life I would could have remembered clearly, instead of the jumbled vignettes of childhood and adolescence.  But even as I turn the door handle in my mind, I know it's wrong. I step through the door, but emerge onto the docks by the harbor, looking out to the shadowy island in the distance. As I stand there, space folds on itself, until I can step off the dock and onto the Lazaret.

“That can't be right.”  Asra's eyes are wide when I open mine back up, and I know he's seen what I have.  I feel - not good - but clearer headed than I have for the past few minutes. “The Lazaret, it shouldn't be . . .”

I let go of one of Asra's hand and unfold my legs from under me to try to stand.  “There's something there I need to see.”

Julian wraps his arms around my middle, trying to hang on to me.  “Whatever you're thinking, I'm not sure it's a good idea.”

“You're one to talk, darling.” I twist free and stand up, bracing myself against Asra's shoulder.  “Maybe, if I learn what's there, I'll get some of my memories back, or at least, break this connection with that damn goat.”

“We can find some other way to deal with Lucio.”  Asra's voice is more rapid than usual, and his eyes are frightened.  As frightened as he was when Julian proposed to die.

“It's not just Lucio, Asra.  There's something there. Something important. About my past.”

He and Julian exchange meaningful looks.  They both know something that they aren't telling me.  Impossible. Both of them.

“Fine.  I'll go by myself.”  I take my hand from Asra's shoulder and begin to stalk across the room.  It take all of two steps for my knees to give and I stumble to floor, catching myself against the rug with my hands.

Asra and Julian are both by my side immediately.  Julian holding my shoulders and helping me into a sitting position; Asra holding my hands and sharing whatever protections he has against Lucio with me.

“No, we'll go with you.  Right Asra?”

Asra looks stricken. “Yes,” his voice wavers.  “For you, I'll go there.”

 

I’m able to walk, mostly, if Asra keeps hold of my hand, but I can feel his power fading fast as he tries to block Lucio from both of us at once.  Julian eventually scoops me up before a flight of stairs and doesn’t put me back down. I can hear the voice, sibilant in the back of my skull.  _ Do you remember what I used to do to thieves in Vesuvia? _  I don’t remember, but I’ve seen the beggars with no hands crowding the edges of the markets.  The baker always gives them bread, he says they’ve paid for it several times over. Shivering as much from the continued whispers as the cold I feel, I curl closer around Julian and close my eyes.  Asra shouts something, hailing a carriage. 

 

“What does it feel like, waiting to die?”  Even as I ask the question, the more rational part of my mind tries to stop me, but she’s weakened, and I want to know.  No, not know. I think that part of me, one of the parts I don’t have access to knows, already, but . . .

Julian’s breath catches.  He hesitates a moment, brows furrowed in thought.  “Zeno.”

“What?”

“Zeno, an ancient mathematician, more of a philosopher, really, I suppose, but the further you get back in history the less applicable any definitions like that are.  He’s famous for proposing a series of paradoxes, stories, ideas that can’t both true, but are both logical, in their own way, and have to be held in tension with one another, and anyway, there’s one where a tortoise is going to race the fastest man who ever lived.”

The carriage rattles over an obstacle in the street, jarring my already aching head.  I hide my face against his neck, listening to his pulse, and then his voice as he continues.

“They decide, to make it a bit more sporting, that the tortoise will get a head start.  The man won’t begin running until the tortoise is at the halfway mark. So the tortoise reaches the halfway point, and the man takes off, but by the time he’s reached the halfway mark, the tortoise has moved ahead.  No matter. He runs, and he reaches the point where the tortoise was, but the tortoise has moved ahead again. Repeat. Again, then again, but each time the man reaches the point where the tortoise was, the tortoise has moved ahead.  How does he catch him? It’s like that. A minute, I know I’m to die in a minute. Now it’s a half of a minute. A second, but that second draws out into eternity, and I still have a half of a second, half of that . . . you can cut time up infinitely after all . . . and how much each of those infinite bits is worth if only, but then -”  His hand stills, fingers caught in my hair and he presses his lips to my forehead. “It turned out okay. In the end.”

“Asra, we should tell her.”  Julian's large hand begins stroking my hair again.  They must think I've fallen fully asleep.

“I . . . In the past, I've tried, and each time I nearly lost her again.  Maybe if her intuition is leading her to the island that's how she needs to find out.”

They are impossible, but I’m too tired, and Julian is too warm for me to bother rousing myself to argue.  I can still hear the whispers in my head when I'm not touching Asra, but when I do, I can feel his power being leached out faster than it can be replaced.  Julian keeps away the worst of the chills; let Asra save what strength he has. I drift in my own mind, listening to their conversation.

“It's not just . . . The Lazaret -” The carriage shifts as Asra moves to sit beside Julian, he picks up my feet and sets them in his lap; the whispering stops for a moment has he hands touch my bare leg. “- the worst memories of my life are there. I'd rather go anywhere else.”

Julian shifts, I think wrapping his other arm around Asra.  Poor Ilya; back from the dead for barely an hour and he's baby sitting one broken magician and one magician who’s rapidly approaching a breaking point.  “It doesn't hold good memories for anyone.” Julian said he helped design the crematoriums. No, that would not be a good memory.

“You at least tried to save people from the start.  I just left. I left everyone.”

“Given what was happening, that was hardly unreasonable, besides you did come back.”

“Too late.” Asra's voice is choked with a sob. “Too damn late.”

“And I didn't even notice until it was too late.”  Julian's arm tightens around me. Too late for what?  “But, whatever you did -”

The carriage come to a lurching halt, cutting off their conversation.  Julian nudges me and I book up at him trying to smile despite the tightness in my jaw. “Hey, we're at the docks,  _ solnishka _ .  Think you can walk.”

Maybe.  I grab Asra's proffered hand.  My body feels leaden, heavy, like someone or something has thrown chains around my limbs.  But having his hand in mine helps, and if nothing else, Julian will catch me if I fall. “I think so.”

Gondolas crowd the docks. We stop at the first empty one, and Asra rummages through his bag before handing a jeweled shell, a bottle of spice, and a coral earring to the gondolier.  “Mind if we borrow your boat for the rest of the day. Thanks.” He doesn't wait for an answer, but helps me into the gondola. Julian climbs in after us, picking up the oars. “Don't worry with those,” Asra tells him.  He lets go of my hand, dips his fingers in the water and taps the side of the boat, propelling it forward with magic, far faster than it could be rowed.

Neat trick, but he had to let go of my hand to do it.  The voice returns, more insistent now that we're on the water.  _ “So unfair... It was supposed to be mine.” _  I press my hands to my head with a groan.  Asra takes ahold of my wrists, but this time the voice doesn't stop.   _ “So you're going there, are you, thief?  Do you think you'll walk off with your mind intact?  Fool!” _  The last word is a shout inside my skull, and I can't help but cry out in pain.

“Dema?”

“It’s worse than it was.”

“Oh, my darling.”  He pulls my hands away from my face and gently kisses my mouth.  As he does so, the voice in my head silences. 

“Oh!”

“What?”

“That, that worked.”

“It did.”  He leans forward again, kissing me eagerly.  The chills and fever and the pain in my head leave my body.  I push him back. “Mmm . . . I feel better, I do. Save your strength.”

Behind him, Julian is hunched over, chin propped up on his hand, grinning contentedly as he watches us.  Asra sits back, leaning his arms against Julian’s legs. He sighs as Julian strokes his hair. “At least, I’m not going back there by myself.  Dema, you really don’t remember anything about the Lazaret.”

I shake my head.  The voice hasn’t returned yet and my limbs are feeling lighter, closer to normal again.  “I only know what Julian told me. The sick were quarantined there, and then the dead were burned there.” 

 

The gondola reaches the shores of the Lazaret soon enough.  Three years after the end of the plague, the beach is still blackened with ash.  The forest beyond is overgrown, almost hiding the smoke stacks behind it. Julian hops out of the boat and drags it to shore, winking at me as he does. “Ridiculous boots, right?”  I smile at him, conceding the point, and step out onto the sand, finally feeling strong enough walk on my own. Asra steps out behind me. Asra is shaking, and Julian’s face is a study in desolation.  I turn back to them, hands outstretched, one raised as high as I can to reach Julian’s face and the other touching Asra’s. 

“I need to do this, but I understand if you can’t come with me.”  Some force is tugging me toward a path leading into the forest. No, not some force, if I squint and look out the corner of my eye, I can see myself, faded and ghostly beckoning me to the forest.  

“We’re coming with you.”

“Thank you.”

 

Julian holds back branches and vines for us as we trek along the path.  The forest has grown around a brick building, trees pushing through the roof line.  I feel the building pulling me to it. Whatever is that I need to see is in there.

 

_ A fire roars in the grates.  I’m in a long hall, lined with metal cots, but there are too many bodies of the dead and dying for the cots to hold them all.  Two or three per bed, more sprawled haphazardly in the floor. Beaked figures move among us in pairs, prodding at our prone figures, grabbing those that don’t respond by arms and legs, hauling them like sacks through the narrow spaces, heaving them into the furnaces. _

_ The furnace, the fate of everyone in this hellhole.  There’s no cure yet, and no hope for anyone sick enough to have been brought here.  Just the fires for us. _

_ Behind the beaked men, the dead with enough strength to move shuffle amongst the bodies, offering water, a hand, what little comfort they can.  After all, that is what they someone to do for them when the time comes. I did, until a day ago, when my knees gave out, and I curled up where I fell.  Waiting. It’s just waiting now, each moment stretching out into an eternity. _

_ Something sharp digs into my side.  I try to move - an arm, a leg - or make some sort of sound, but my body won’t cooperate anymore.  Hands grab my wrists and ankles. I can’t even get my eyes to open. No. Don’t. I’m still . . . _

 

I’m screaming.  I can scream, and flail, about and there’s sun on my face and no fire, and the hands around my wrists are only Asra’s, and, and...

I’m alive.

But I died.  I died three years ago.  The plague, the fire, a combination.  I died. I’m alive. The paradox churns in my head, tearing at me.

I pull a hand away from Asra and clasp it to my mouth biting at the fleshy part of one of my fingers, the sharp pain giving me something, anything to focus on.  Someone pulls my hand away from my mouth just as a I taste my own blood. And there are arms around me picking me up. I flail, kicking out and crying, no, no . . . I’m alive, dammit.

Alive.


	2. You Can't Choose What Stays and What Fades Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Florence and the Machine, "No Light, No Light."

_ Julian _

Dema picks her way into the crumbling building, placing each footstep with caution.  She holds her right hand in front of her, raised and outstretched, as if she is trying to feel her way in the dark.  Asra creeps behind her, face downcast, but eyes raised to follow her movement through the building. Julian stays back, beside what’s left of the doorframe uninterested in seeing the furnaces any closer.  He spent enough time working out the calculations on the airflow; he knows what they look like.

She stops at an interior door, a ray of sunlight catching in her hair.  Suddenly, she sinks to her knees, clutching her hands to her chest and mumbling something.  Asra pauses. He’s still a few feet from her when she screams. He jerks forward to her but steps back again when she flings out her hand.

“Don’t touch me!”

Julian crosses the room as quickly as he can without tripping over any of the rubble.  He stops in beside Asra, who is crouched in the floor now. His eyebrows are knitted together in concern over wide violet eyes.

“What’s happening?”

“She . . . she found one of her memories.”  Asra’s voice trembles.

“Shouldn’t we, maybe, do something?”

“I don’t think so.  I don’t know.”

“No.  Don’t.”  Her voice is a queer, reedy keen.  “I’m alive. I’m still alive. Don’t!”

Julian feels his heart stop for a second time that day.  Had she really still - oh god - he stops his mind from finishing the thought.  Asra is petrified next to him, tears collecting in his eyes. He looks back at Dema.  She has a hand pressed tightly against her mouth and there’s blood running down her wrist. No.

“Asra, I have to do something.”  

It’s a single step to close the distance and scoop her up in his arms.  She screams again and kicks, but she’s small and he’s large and the way he’s holding her she can’t do much to twist away.  And he’ll gladly take any kick or punch she can land, as long as he can get her out of there like he should have done years ago.  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, darling,” he whispers, even though he suspects that she doesn’t hear him. 

 

~~~

 

“Dema.”  The voice my ear is soft, warm.  “You’re okay, it’s done. It’s past.”  

Julian.

Another hand takes my hand, a cool touch spreading over where I bit myself, healing it.

Asra.

I breath, ragged and halting, air, cool air filling my lungs, diaphragm expanding and contracting.  I open my eyes slowly. We’re outside, surrounded by the verdant overgrowth of the forest reclaiming the horrors of the island.  Julian has me cradled in his lap. Asra is crouched across from us, tears streaming down his face. 

“I died.”  My voice is far calmer than I expected.  “But, I’m alive.” I extend a trembling hand in front of me, studying the faint lines etched across my palms.  The two statements computer in my heads like orchestras tuning up into different keys. “How? I burned. This, this isn't my body.”

“It is.”

“Can't be.”  I jerk my arms back, left hand over my mouth.  Julian's hand close around my wrists, like he's worried - oh yes, I bit my hand that isn't my hand but is somehow, hard, hard enough to break the skin and - I give up trying to parse it and slump back against him.  “I don't understand.”

“Your scars were gone and the tattoos you had, but all your birthmarks are the same - your gestures, your muscle memory, your expressions and direct all the same - it made me hope the rest of your memories would return.”  Asra's gaze is downcast, focused on his own hands. “Most of them, at least. Maybe not this.”

What is it like to die?  To be dead? Questions you can only answer in paradoxes, because you shouldn't be able to answer at all.  I close my eyes and listen to Julian's heart beating in his chest. His grip on my wrists loosens and he runs his hands up and down my arms, chafing his fingers across mine, which both are and aren't mine, but his touch brings my consciousness back to them.  Not mine, but mine.

I twist myself cautiously out of Julian’s embrace, hoping that the world doesn’t crumble and warp around me as his fingers leave mine.  We’re just off the overgrown pathway that led back to the . . . the building. Grasses poke through the gravel in scrubby masses. A climbing plant, lush and heavy with tri lobed leaves is working its way up and over the bushes and understory trees beside us.  A muscadine vine drapes down from the tree tops, rough stringy bark biting into the palm of my hand as I close my fingers around it. I close my eyes and run my finger over the surface, concentrating on the texture. Around me, the frogs are beginning their evening chorus, crickets droning behind them.  All alive. All taking back the island. I curl my toes in my sandals and shift my weight from my heels to the balls of my feet, then back again, noting the feeling of strength and balance in my legs. Mine. Just keep repeating it. 

I open my eyes and look back to Asra.  “What did you do? Don’t lie to me. Don’t tell me to forget - what did you do?”

“I -”  His voice breaks.  He brushes tears out of his eyes.  “There’s something else I need to show you.”

 

~~~

 

Shallow, irregular mounds dot the blackened beach above the tideline.  Mass graves. Asra is swaying on his feet; Julian catches him under his elbow.  He smiles weakly and sits down on a piece of driftwood.

“We argued.  Do you remember?”  

I shake my head.  It’s only my death I’ve uncovered; this island isn’t going to give me back the life I lost.  Or explain how I came to have my current one.

He sighs and continues.  “I wanted to leave Vesuvia during the plague.  You wanted to stay, to help the people of the city.  I left anyway, because, because that’s what I do - I never intend to stay gone, I just, oh, I don’t know why that's the only way I know to manage being overwhelmed.  When I came back. You were gone . . . I went looking, and this is I found you, what was left.” His voice catches, and he looks up at the darkening sky, hands outstretched helplessly in front of him.  “I dug and dug and all I found was ash and bone, and that’s all there was . . . ash.”

“Asra.”  I kneel in front of him, taking his hands in mine.  He’s gasping, struggling to talk through the tears, that he keeps hidden behind his coy answers and wry smiles.  Nearby, Julian hovers, writing at the hem of his shirt, clearly as unsure as I am about how to comfort Asra.

“That first night of the masquerade three years ago, I made my own bargain with the Arcana.  I gave up part of my heart, to the Magician, in exchange for restoring your life.” 

I reach out, touching his chest, just above his heart.  The mark, the odd, irregular rhythm, the way the Magician’s aura merged and blended with his.  “Oh, Asra.” He leans forward, head resting on my shoulder. I bring my hands up, one on the back of his neck, the other in his hair.

“Dema, I can’t even imagine how you feel right now.”  

Loved.  I feel loved.  What else would I feel?  

Asra continues before my mouth can form the words.  “I know I should have told you so many things, but every time... and I didn’t want you to relieve this, dying alone here.  But I was also afraid, not just for you, but for me, to face what I’d done, agreeing to help Lucio, even though I knew what kind of man he was.  Then to involve others in that ritual, leading them into the most dangerous realms of magic, pushing boundaries I didn’t even know existed.”

I move my hand from the back of his neck to his chest.  I can feel his heart beating beneath my hand. It’s not ragged now, instead the beat is in time with my own.  This is my anchor, not the island, not the shop. Here in front of me. Whatever it means to have died, the sync between Asra's heart and mind is the proof that I am alive.  And in that moment, I hear a faint, final wail in my head.

“You’re it.”

“What?”  He raises his head from my shoulder, and I look up into his eyes.

“My anchor to this world.  You’re it.”

“I . . . really?”

“Lucio’s voice - it’s gone.  It must be you, right?”

He smiles through his tears, the dimples forming in his cheeks. I pull his face close to mine and kiss him tenderly.  “It’s okay now. I’m alive.”

Julian sits down next to me in the sand, looking morosely out over the harbor.  I take one of his hands in mine. He looks at me with sad eyes, tension still written on his face.  I squeeze his hand in reassurance. “Really, Julian, it’s alright now. I’m alright.”

“I’m the one who let you die though.”

“There was no cure.  You couldn’t have . . . you can’t save everyone.  Julian, please -” I touch my hand to his face, and he leans into it.  “Forgive yourself. Both of you. Come my loves, I want to go home.”

 

~~~

 

Gondolas dot the harbor, their lamps blinking like fireflies.  Julian sprawls in the bottom of the boat, still strangely silent and lost in thought.  Asra and I trail our fingers in the water, steering the gondola toward the shore. My eyes stay on Julian; I’m worried about his propensity for guilt and ability to excoriate himself.  I nudge his foot with mine and wink, getting a rough half grin in return.

I exchange a look with Asra.  He nods and I climb down into the boat next to Julian.  

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”  I snuggle against him, the boat rocking as I do.  “What are you tormented by now?”

He strokes my hair.  “How can you forgive me?”

“Julian, I don’t want to live in the past.”  I walk my fingers across his chest, up to the hollow of his throat.  “I  _ can’t _ live in the past.  Besides -” I flick his chin.  “You just died this morning. Call it even.”

He snorts.  “I suppose that’s one way to figure it.  The Hanged Man gave me an option, to return or to stay in his realm, and learn from him.  He said the information about the plague, Lucio, it would get those who needed it whether or not I stayed with him.”

“You chose to come back to us.”

“Yes, I . . . I don’t know if I’ll hurt you in the future.  I’ll probably find someway to do so. It’s what I do, whether I want to or not.  But if I stayed, I’d be abandoning you again.” He goes quiet again. “During the plague, after Asra left, I suppose, you were an apprentice in a clinic I ran, that’s how we met.  It was bleak. The plague itself, and then . . . Valdemar . . . Even now it’s a haze, work, sleep, drink, drink some more. But even though you were the only light, I didn’t notice . . . it was two, maybe three days, but the plague moved fast, and that was enough, and -”

I bring a finger up to his lips.  I still can't quite make the phrase 'I died’ be still in my mind, all I can do is push it to the side where it's vibrating drone can be somewhat more easily ignored, but he finishes anyway.  “I couldn’t do anything. You were already dead. I let you die. And then, I wanted to find a cure so badly I agreed to forget you.”

“Ilya, stop it.  Listen to me.” I turn his face to me, so that I can still both his eyes.  “Here are some things I like about you: your wit, a strong nose, and when you actually smile - not smirk, or leer - I feel like the world lights up.  I feel safe with you.” He starts to turn away and clasp my fingers for forcefully on his jaw to stop him. “Listen. Here’s what I love: you are the one of us willing to die to do the right thing.  Not the right thing for yourself, or for someone dear to you - the right thing. And then, you choose to come back to us. There’s nothing to forgive, you foolish man.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Very.”

He kisses my forehead.

A firework explodes above us, painting the sky with colors.  The boat rocks again as Asra shifts around, laying down next to me on his side, his head propped up on his hand where he can look down at the two of us.  The colored lights of the fireworks reflect in his eyes. He’s smiling, relaxed and happy. He leans down to kiss me, and then over me to kiss Julian before laying down beside me, his arm draped over both of us.

Another firework goes off, spinning lavender across the darkened sky.  Asra laughs with delight. “Look, it’s Faust!”

“If you squint hard enough, maybe.”

“Mmm . . . That’s my grumpy Ilya.”  Asra tucks his head against my shoulder and sighs happily.

“Where is Faust?”

“Mmm, checking up on Muriel and Inanna.  She doesn't care for the Masquerade - too easy to get stepped on.”

 

~~~

 

“Oh, I want to live madly:

To make all existence eternal,

Give the faces to the formless, 

Incarnate possibilities yet unfulfilled.

 

So what if life’s difficulties smother me,

So what if I suffocate in this dream -

Perhaps, in the future, 

a happier youth will speak about me

 

Forgive his melancholy - perhaps 

it was his secret drive? He was wholly 

the triumph of freedom,

a child of goodness and light.”

 

Aleksandr Blok, February 5, 1914

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The above poem is one of my favorites and seemed like a fitting close for this chapter. I wasn’t happy with either of the available English translations, so I’ve been futzing with it for a couple of days. The first and last stanzas are less literally accurate now, but I think is somewhat closer to capturing the intended meaning. The Russian original and one translation are available here. The other English translation that I know of is by Stallworthy and France. Please note, I am neither a poet or entirely fluent in Russian, so I was heavily reliant on both of those translations.
> 
> Thanks to InsurgentInsomniac for wondering about Julian and Asra's responses. I decided to throw in the third limited section the comment inspired. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from Depeche Mode, "Barrel of a Gun"  
> Chapter title from St. Vincent, "Marrow"
> 
> A summary of Zeno’s paradox about Achilles and the Tortoise can be found [here](https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/paradox-zeno/#AchTor). The paradox can be solved with calculus, btw.
> 
> Another source for figuring out how to write this chapter, particularly the sections on waiting to die is from Dostoevsky’s description of waiting to be executed- given as a speculation on the part of one of his characters in _The Idiot_ \- of the thought process of a man waiting to be executed.
> 
> Portia's threat about excommunicating dead bodies is adapted from one I've heard used by a bishop. Long story. Not really (the long part, the story is true).
> 
> Thanks for reading. I'm relatively happy with how this chapter turned out, but not entirely (at minimum, there are some awkward transitions), so I'm open to constructive criticism. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr [@Aria-i-Adagio](aria-i-adagio.tumblr.com).


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